By Hunter Perez

The rock quarry duties would last until mid-afternoon, at which point we would be brought back to our cells. Zeb would crash into a deep, tumult-free sleep, and I would be able to get some placid snoozing in – unlike the nights with Zeb’s snoring and thrashing keeping me up. One afternoon, shortly after we fell asleep, there was tapping at the cell door – it was Private Charleson, informing me that Holmgren wanted to see me in his office. I reluctantly got out of bed and walked out of the cell into the corridor, turning my back to Charleson and putting my hands behind my back. Charleson locked the cell and was about 15 paces down when he realized I was still standing at the cell door.

“What are you doing?” he asked as he walked back.

“I thought I was going to be handcuffed,” I said, still groggy from being awakened. “Whenever Sergeant Patterson would take me to see the lieutenant, he would always handcuff me.”

Charleson pulled out his handcuffs as he approached me. “Oh, not a problem. The lieutenant didn’t say that you needed to be restrained.”

As I felt the metallic restraints click on my wrists, my grogginess immediately wore off. “Wait, do you mean to say that I don’t have to be handcuffed?”

Charleson laughed as he spun me around to face me. “Well, you asked for it and you got it. You’re not getting out now.”

I groaned as Charleson led me through the corridors to Holmgren’s office. The lieutenant was seated at his desk going through a stack of papers with a half-smoked cigar burning in an ashtray. He looked up as I was directed into the office by Charleson, who stepped back into the corridor and closed the door.

“Why are you handcuffed?” Holmgren said to me with a puzzled expression. “I didn’t tell Charleson to restrain you.”

“I mentioned that Patterson used to handcuff me and he thought I wanted to be handcuffed, so he did it,” I said. “Can I sit down?”

“Patterson is right – you do talk too much,” Holmgren said. “Go ahead, sit down.”

As I sat down, Holmgren pushed aside his paperwork and folded his hands on the desk. “So, what can I do for you?”

I looked at him strangely. “You asked to see me – I didn’t ask to see you.”

Holmgren chuckled as he took his flask from his jacket pocket and helped himself to a quick gulp. “Well, since you have my attention, is there anything I can do for you?”

“Can you please have these handcuffs taken off me?” I ask him.

“No,” he said, consuming another flask gulp before tightening its lid. “Is there anything else?”

I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. “Nah, I’m pretty much done for the day.”

Holmgren picked up his cigar from the ashtray and rolled it in his fingers. “Well, I need to speak with you about something very important. After all, you are the only person around here that I confide in. I think I’m in love.”

Holmgren put the cigar in his mouth and took a deep inhale. I leaned forward and said, “With what?”

My comment caused him to choke and he angrily crushed the cigar in his ashtray. “Any more smart-ass remarks and you’ll have ankle shackles to go with those handcuffs.” He reopened the flask and took another gulp before resealing it and returning it to his jacket pocket. “I think I’m in love with the school teacher in town. I went down to the schoolhouse to see about getting some kiddie books for Zeb’s lessons, and I met him. His name is Quinn, and the man is fucking gorgeous – a real butch ex-soldier type, with Black Irish good looks and a deep voice that could make you cum just by hearing him recite the alphabet.”

“That’s not my image of a 19^th century school teacher,” I laughed. “Is this feeling mutual?”

Holmgren blushed slightly and leaned back in his chair. “I would like to think so. I only expected to be there for a few minutes and we wound up talking for about two hours. He was constantly smiling and looking at me very intensely.”

“Sort of like the way a glutton looks at a steak?” I said.

“You’re being a smart-ass, and I already warned you,” he replied with a grin. “But, yeah, that’s an appropriate description. My gaydar was pinging nonstop with him. And he did ask me to visit his class to give a presentation of my job – sort of like a career day.”

“Well, Johnno, I’m very happy for you,” I said. “I hope this is the start of a long and happy relationship.”

Holmgren’s buoyant mood suddenly withered. “But there’s the problem. You see, he’s not a full-time teacher. He’s not even a teacher. He is a writer for a magazine and he has a great gig – he goes around the country doing difficult jobs for about 60 days and then he writes about them. He was working in a copper mine before he got this teaching job. He was a rancher in Texas, he worked on the New Orleans docks, he worked on a steamship going up the Mississippi.”

“Hey, I remember that steamship article from one of the magazines you gave me,” I said. “It was really very interesting and very well written.”

“But that’s also the problem,” Holmgren continued. “He’s not going to be staying in Monroeville that much longer. A new full-time teacher is coming in from Texas in a couple weeks and then he’s going to file his story and move on. Unless I can find him work around the town, I’ll never see him again.”

“So why not have him work inside here?” I said. “Has he ever done an article about being a prison guard?”

Holmgren rubbed his eyes and then stretched his arms. “No, he hasn’t, and I thought about that idea, but it won’t work. It will take a month to have him trained properly and then he’ll only be on the job for 30 days. We don’t have the resources to train someone just to work for 30 days – we’re understaffed, and we need someone for the long haul. I’m so upset. After all of this time, I finally fell in love, and he’ll be gone before I know it.”

Holmgren slumped over his desk like a deflated balloon in its final descent. My handcuffs were creating a strain on my arms, and I started to shift about to find comfort when an idea came to me. “Johnno, instead of being a prison guard, why not have this guy be a prisoner for 60 days?”

Holmgren sat up with a shock. “What did you say?”

“Do you remember there was a TV show with people who went undercover in a prison for 60 days?” I continued. “If that worked in the 21^st century, why wouldn’t it work now? It would certainly be a great story for his magazine where he talks about his undercover experiences. You’ll have him for another 60 days and you know he won’t leave early or unexpectedly.”

Holmgren took on a new glow as beamed while considering the idea. “You know, that never occurred to me. I don’t know if Quinn would want to do it. But he is a tough character – he was in the Civil War and later went with the Army to fight the Indians. He did ranching, mining, coal shoveling, and all sorts of hard work. This kind of a challenge might appeal to him. My goodness, pal, you’re going to get a big slice of cake in your dinner tonight for being so clever.”

“I have another idea,” I added. “I remember once reading a story online about a guy with a prison fetish – I think he was also a writer – who got tricked by a correctional officer into going undercover in prison, but once he was on the inside he was trapped and couldn’t get out. But rather than complain, he began to enjoy life behind bars and lived happily ever after.”

Holmgren pulled a new cigar from his jacket and began twirling it in his fingers. “I think you just lost that big slice cake.”

Now it was my turn to get upset. “Why? What’s wrong with what I said?”

“Dude, be serious,” Holmgren pleaded. “This is real life – we’re not in a Metalbondnyc story. Do you really think a guy who gets to travel all over the country will want to spend the rest of his life in here? Besides, I don’t know if he’ll even want to do it.”

“Well, there’s no harm in asking,” I said. “Besides, how would you get him in here as an undercover writer?”

Holmgren tapped about his desk and pulled out a file. He thumbed through its contents and pulled out several sheets of paper. “This could be my lucky day. The court in Albuquerque sent me this file with the paperwork of a new bunch of prisoners who just came in, but they accidentally included some blank sheets of their stationery. Everything is handwritten around here – I don’t think the typewriter has been invented yet – so I can just fill in the make-believe offense and the prison sentence to get him in here. It could be interesting. Okay, you win – you get the cake with your dinner – I’ll have Charleson arrange it when he takes you back.”

I stood up and bowed. “Thank you, Johnno. And I hope this all works out…”

“No, we’re not done,” he interrupted, his cheerful tone abruptly turning somber. “I would also like a progress report on how you are doing with Zeb’s education.”

I sat down and grimaced. “Well, there goes my slice of cake.”

Holmgren leaned over his desk and asked, “No progress?”

“Johnno, this is an impossible assignment,” I protested. “You have us out in the quarry for most of the day, and by the time we’re back in the cell we’re exhausted. When I was working with Merrifield, we had all the time in the day for lessons. And at night, Zeb’s not the type to sit down to read – he only looks at the magazines with pictures in them. He also hates his father, and I am afraid he’s going to figure out why I suddenly want him to read and write.”

Holmgren stood up and walked around his desk. “I’ll ask my Mr. Quinn for an idea. I realize that Zeb is not the scholarly type, and maybe an outsider can come up with a new approach. Oh, and speaking of Merrifield, I understand that you two had a reunion that didn’t go so well.”

Holmgren fished a paper from a file and started scanning this. “Private Merrifield filed your very first conduct demerit report – he claimed you showed repeated incivility and engaged in inappropriate conversation.” He held up the paper and tore it in half, crumpling it into a ball and throwing it over his shoulder. “Merrifield might as well tell me that water is wet and the sky is blue.”

Holmgren walked beyond me to the office door, opened it and called for Charleson, who arrived with seconds. “Private Charleson, please take the prisoner back to his cell. And for his dinner, please see that he gets a slice of cake for dessert – and give a slice to his cell mate, Zeb, too.”

I stood and walked out of the office, pausing to look at Holmgren. I mouthed “Thank you,” and he winked at me before calling out, “And Private Charleson, get a slice of cake for me, too.”

To be continued…